


Itch To Scratch

by hellhoundsprey



Series: ficlet prompts [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Cain (Supernatural), Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fisting, Blood, Drunk Sex, Knotting, M/M, Painful Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 04:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16906395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: It's healthy.





	Itch To Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Found this gem from 2016 while cleaning up my tumblr.

It’s the type of night where a fight would be just as good as a fuck. Rut night. Sounds like a bad porn title. Dean fucking hopes it’s gonna live up to it.

Being thrown against the nearest dumpster by another alpha makes him feel optimistic.

No number of beers can cool the itch under his nails. Most alphas don’t have the balls to get themselves provoked by him. As handy as that might be in everyday life, it’s a damn curse right now; well, was, until-

“You fuckin’ fight like an OMEGA!” Dean spits blood and grins like a madman up into darkness. Even with the street lights too far away, the world is pinprick-sharp.

Knuckles crack as they are shaken. Dean’s blood on there. Dean’s DNA. 

(Being told you’re sick doesn’t cure you.)

Dean waits (patiently, grinning, on all fours like a whore) for the stranger to close in, haul him up by the collar of his jacket, land a few good ones. Dean’s canines rip over his tongue in an attempt to lap across those fingers.

Bleeding, panting, he laughs. Can see the other alpha smile, too, how he blows some air across his now as well bleeding hand. Tight lips, pursed, mixing blood, hint of the same piss-cheap whiskey Dean had in the bar they decided to take it outside from.

Every inch of Dean wants to be torn apart by those hands. That mouth. Those eyes.

“You young people and your lack of basic manners.”

Rearranged grip on Dean’s jacket; hauling, pushing, until there’s bricks up against Dean’s back and he has an easy excuse to stare up, languid and straining. He has one palm cupped over the alpha’s and digs his nails into split skin. The fucker doesn’t even flinch.

Dean spits some red onto the stranger’s white button-down and earns what makes his ears ring. 

“Didn’t your daddy tell you to not overestimate yourself?”

A stray tear in his lashes and Dean slurs all sugar-sweet, “Maybe I need a new daddy,” before he gets his head knocked against the wall by a fist in his hair. Doesn’t stop him. Nothing. Not tonight. “Need a daddy to show me the ropes. _Alpha_.”

“I believe you’re not a pup anymore.”

“Can be whatever you want.”

The knee to his stomach makes him shut up for the duration of emptying his dinner all over himself. He makes sure to get some on the guy’s shoes, too. Snickers to himself for that.

Zipper. No belt. “You do that a lot?”

“Maki’g people bash m’ head in?”

“No. Or, well, yeah.” Heavy smell. Dean’s skin crawls and his dick aches down to the root. “Practically begging to be subdued. Stalking the streets like some bitch in heat.”

Dean closes his eyes as he licks his lips. If the alpha is smart, he won’t waste time on the teethed hole.

“Mh, only ‘n speci’l occ’s’ns,” slurs Dean. Doesn’t matter though, since he’s already getting hauled to his feet.

Face-first into the bricks, one tooth now chipped and hands flying up to brace his weight that slams forward, Dean growls – not at the hand ripping off some buttons of his fly but the one wrenching down on the back of his neck. And god, does he feel complete.

You can’t arch your back like that anywhere else but in a filthy alley. It’s a law. Or something. 

Alpha’s don’t do that, Dean.

“Ohfuckohfuckohfuck-“

“Shhh.”

Dean squeals.

“Eyes bigger than your tummy, kid?”

Dean’s head shakes, frantically. He splits a nail as it rakes down the bricks, then his skin as he hammers his fist into the very same spot. Hauls for air. It’s been too fucking long. The alpha has both hands on his hips (alpha and slim and no need to cradle a baby and isn’t it so much prettier this way?), must know there is no use in pinching his way to submission if he can fuck himself there.

It’s biology. You can’t fight that shit.

Dean’s mouth is spewing howls and spit between begs for _more, harder, c’mon, don’t you fucking dare pussy out on me you cunt_ , and fuck he’s gonna regret this for the next couple of weeks, gonna reek of sour alpha-on-alpha. Can see his stupid brother scrunching his nose, turn away in disgust and shame, cursing under his breath like Dean is some abomination, like Dean’s the only alpha who’s into getting mounted.

It’s healthy, Dean decided long ago, to let himself fall apart like that. Luxury. Not every alpha has the guts to do that - in a way, Dean is his best alpha-self when he’s getting his insides hollowed out by cock (and isn’t that ironic?).

The guy says he’s gonna knot and Dean wails, isn’t sure if the guy would let him get away if he wanted. He feels small, so small in these hands, lets them pull and push however they want him, pushes back, feels it swelling and still sliding, thrusting. It fills out so quick and maybe that’s good, doesn’t give him much time to think or panic because it’s already in then, thick and forcing him too wide and still expanding (an omega wouldn’t get tied this fast; missing out bitches).

Dean is sobbing. Alphas don’t come untouched. (If Dean’d ever run into his biology teacher, he’d have news for him.) Maybe the alpha feels it. Maybe he doesn’t. Can’t be much fun with Dean’s insides cramping down like that, not build to take what he gives. Come gushes up Dean’s guts in thick spurts (fucking burns like hellfire) and that’s the first moment he gets scared. That this was too much. That he shouldn’t have let the guy tie him. But that’s too late now.

“Shhh,” the alpha whispers again. Puts the fingers of one hand on Dean’s lower back, feather-light.

Dean feels him throbbing inside of him. Solid, untiring. Dean’s knees are shaking.

“Take it.”

Dean does. 

And Dean honest-to-god yowls when the alpha withdraws way too soon, way too sudden, but Dean is too weak and his hand too slippery with his own sweat and blood to stop the guy.

Fingers clawing around a wrist. Teeth clamped shut. Nose blocked.

Everything is pain and adrenaline and it’s the fucking best he’s ever felt during a rut. 

This is completion.

While the guy punches his fist up Dean’s ruined ass, he speaks in a soft, satisfied voice. Dean won’t remember a damn thing, won’t remember coming again but will remember the girth of the alpha’s forearm (Dean’s fingers slipped with time). Will think back in satisfaction, because the guy will have to burn his clothes with Dean’s blood all over it. They will both stink of tonight, and in this game it doesn’t matter whose ass furls out over whose hand. People’s noses don’t pay attention to these minor details.

(This is being branded.)

Dean passes out. It’s not morning yet when he comes to, but the alpha is gone. Better that way. Dean throws up as far away as he can manage to heave himself to and starts pulling his jeans into place. Nobody had found him. Better that way.

Caked blood. The come is almost insignificant in comparison. Maybe Dean should see a doctor. But then again he’s a proud guy. Eh.

The alpha didn’t tell his name. Looked fancy enough with his ponytail, beard, crazy-blue eyes. Strange nose. Maybe got it broken a long time ago, just like Dean. Wrinkles you can’t iron out – they stick with you.

No need to mourn. Filth like them finds each other. It always does.


End file.
